


Climbing the Pyramid

by Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Found Family, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Trans Barclay, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Mama, Vaginal Fingering, even if one participant is in denial about that BARCLAY, hookups that are definitely more than hookups, porn with very little plot but lots of feelings, realistic use of protection during sex (as an expression of love and caretaking)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka/pseuds/Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka
Summary: Amnesty Lodge is more than Barclay ever expected it would be. It's safe, it's stable, it's the first place in a long time he's had more than just the basics of survival.That Madeline Cobb is part of it is just the icing on the cake.
Relationships: Barclay/Mama (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Climbing the Pyramid

**Author's Note:**

> Technically kind of a missing piece of a longer story I'm posting on my gen account ([How to Keep Warm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798612/)) but I'm giving it its own place for rating's sake, and because it's in a different verb tense, and because I Can :P The title is meant to reference Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
> 
> Note that this fic contains sexual content between a trans man who has had top surgery but not bottom surgery, and a trans woman who has had both. "Dick" is used to refer to trans male genitalia; a trans male character receives oral sex and gives digital penetrative sex.
> 
> Thanks as always to the Ducknerva Discord for being my constant cheerleaders, writing advisers, and general all around rad people to know.

Here’s the thing about living at Amnesty Lodge: it’s _safe._ It’s safe and it’s stable, things which Barclay hasn’t had very much of in his time on Earth. It’s the first time in a long time he’s been able to think about more than where he’s going to sleep and how he’s going to feed himself and if he’s going to still be lucid when he wakes up tomorrow. He’s able to . . . well, maybe not relax, exactly, because he’s not positive he remembers how to actually do that anymore, but he’s able to just _live_ here. And hand in hand with that, he’s been able to start letting himself want things that he’s used to shoving way, way down on his list of priorities. 

There’s a wild luxury in it. He _could_ drink Arlo Thacker’s very bad coffee just to get the caffeine in his system, but he _can_ turn it down because he knows Mike’s got better stuff brewing back at the Lodge. He _could_ eat whatever’s on the menu for supper, but if he _wants_ to get Chinese from the only place in Kepler he can just _do that instead._

He _could_ ignore the way him and Madeline Cobb have been dancing around the attraction between them, he _could_ quit flirting with her and quit treasuring the way she flirts with him, but he doesn’t _want_ to stop doing that. 

God, he really doesn’t want to do that. 

He wants to savor every last second of nights like tonight, when the two of them are fresh off a monster hunt and sitting by the side of the springs, dangling their bare feet in the warm, living current while they nurse their drinks and watch the stars. 

He’s been wondering for months what it’d be like to kiss her. Wondering if the freckles that range from her hairline to her collarbone keep going under her shirt. He's willing to bet they do.

And it's not . . . Listen, it's not like he hasn't hooked up with people on Earth. He's had his share of that kinda thing: men and women, coworkers and strangers. But Madeline's different. Madeline’s probably the nearest thing he’s ever had to a best friend. Madeline knows what he is and hasn't made a big deal about it. Madeline started treating him like a real person before she ever saw what his human face looked like. 

Barclay’s scared of screwing that up. But also, Barclay’s not awesome at ignoring it (or, let’s be real, hiding it) when he’s attracted to someone. And _also_ also, he just doesn’t _want_ to ignore it. He wants to see where it goes.

So when Madeline pauses in the middle of laughing about the dumbass way Thacker behaved during this most recent hunt, when she leans forward abruptly and presses her lips to his and cups his cheek in her hand, well . . . Barclay’s only too happy to roll with it. 

Her lips are soft and her fingers are cool and the kiss is everything Barclay hoped it would be. He reaches up and cards his fingers through her dark hair. Madeline grins crookedly when she finally pulls away. 

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” She says, pushing a strand of his hair back out of his face. 

“Yeah?” Barclay feels something indescribable in his chest, something light and powerful and giddy. It’s one thing to _want_ and it’s another thing to be _wanted_ and it’s a third, even more intoxicating thing to slip from _wanting_ into _having._ “Was it everything you hoped for?” 

She makes a thoughtful noise and runs her fingertips along the stubble on his cheek. “I could get used to it.” 

So Barclay leans forward and kisses _her_ this time, cupping her shoulders in his hands. Her mouth tastes like bourbon and the skin under his palms prickles with goosebumps. Barclay’s not sure if it’s from the night breeze or the touch of his skin against hers. 

Madeline slips her arms around his shoulders and leans into him, presses her chest against his close enough that he can feel her heartbeat, the pulse just a little bit slower than his. Barclay runs his palm down her back, follows the curve of her spine until he’s resting his hand at the small of her back. 

They spend a while like that, one kiss turning into a lot more than one, until finally Madeline pulls back just a little bit and reaches up to grasp the collar of his shirt. “You wanna take this inside?” She says, quietly inviting, and Barclay’s never wanted anything so much in his fucking _life_ as he wants that right now. 

“Hell yes I do,” He rumbles, lets her go long enough to clamber to his feet and pull her up after him. 

“Eager beaver, huh?” She laughs at him, but it’s a warm and safe kind of a sound. 

“You know me,” Barclay grins, reaching out to catch her hand in his own and feeling a swift, secret jolt of delight when she laces her fingers into his, “Never turn down a good thing while it lasts.” 

Madeline snorts and bends down to retrieve her shoes and socks. Barclay leaves his where they are, tucked against the privacy fence surrounding the springs; he’ll come back and get them later, when he’s got less important things on his mind. 

He follows her into the Lodge, the two of them dodging the creakiest floorboards and shutting the doors as silently as possible behind them even though everyone else is long since asleep or at least retired to their rooms. Barclay leans in to ask her which room, but she beats him to it, tugging him down the hall past his door towards hers. 

She tosses her shoes into a corner and kisses him again as soon as the door’s locked behind them, leaning into it with a driven, intense motion that propels the both of them towards her bed. Barclay’s still got that giddy, indescribable feeling in his chest except now it’s shifted and woven itself into something more urgent, something hotter and more hungry, something that doesn’t just _want_ but _needs_. 

He bends down and kisses her neck, the soft place where it meets her shoulder, and she tugs him forward while he does until the two of them half-tumble down to sit on the edge of her bed. There’s a tiny corner of Barclay’s brain that can’t quite believe this is happening. 

Madeline’s fingers card through his hair, trace along his jaw and down towards his collar, and then she pulls back a little bit. “Ah, shit. Hang on.” 

Barclay’s heart drops a little bit. “Something wrong?”

“Nah.” She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and she kisses him again before she scoots over and pulls open the drawer of her bedside table and starts rummaging. “I just ain’t as prepared as I like to be, is all. Gimme a second.” 

Understanding takes a moment, but then she pulls a box of condoms and another of latex gloves out of the drawer, followed by a bottle of lube. “. . . oh. Oh, okay.” 

Madeline raises an eyebrow at him. “This ain’t a problem, is it?” It’s pretty clear from the tone of her voice that if it is then this evening’s activities are coming to a halt.

“What? No. No, of course not.” Barclay winces a little bit. Because no, of course it’s not a problem, he’s just . . . well, to be totally frank, he’s embarrassed that the subject never even crossed his mind.

“Okay. Good.” Madeline smiles, warm like sunlight, and goes back to what she was doing. “I ain’t makin’ a moral judgment or anything, y’know,” she says, pulling out a pair of small, sharp scissors and slitting open a foil packet as she speaks. “It’s just common sense.”

“No, I . . . I get that.” Barclay’s uncomfortably aware that the specific details of how often he’s been with people who didn’t rate high on common sense are . . . probably something she’d be alarmed by if she knew. “I’m fine with it. I mean, it makes sense. I’m just not used to . . . uh. I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “Not everyone I’ve hooked up with on Earth has . . . y’know. Been prepared.” 

Madeline sets a now snipped-open condom on the side table, pushes her hair back with a palm and watches him quietly for a second. “Meanin’ they didn’t always take care of you bein’ safe with them?” She asks, and there’s an edge of something he can’t quite name in her tone.

Barclay squirms a little and shrugs. When she puts it like that it sounds . . . not great. “I’m pretty sure I can’t catch anything human beings spread around,” he says as she goes to work on a second condom, knowing it sounds like a pretty weak defense even as he says it. 

“Hey.” Madeline reaches out and puts her hand over his, leaning forward. “I meant what I said, Barclay, I ain’t judgin’ you.

“Maybe we can’t catch anything off each other, maybe we can,” she continues, “But that ain’t the point. The point is I care enough about myself to make sure I got my bases covered, and I care enough about _you_ to do the same thing, and if the folks you’ve been with before didn’t do that then they let you the fuck down.” 

“Yeah, well . . .” He has to think for a second to come up with an answer that doesn’t make it sound like he doesn’t give a shit about his own well-being, which isn’t true (at least not right _now_ ). Finally he shrugs and looks up at her from under his eyelashes. “Not everyone’s you, Madeline.” 

She snorts and gives his hand a squeeze, apparently appeased. “Goddamn sweet-talker, ain'tcha?”

“I do okay for myself.” Barclay grins and leans in to kiss her. She kisses him back, sets the scissors and the makeshift dental dam aside and reaches up to cup his face between her hands. Her palms are callused and steady and Barclay kind of wishes she’d stay just like that forever, because it’s perfect, her holding him while she runs her tongue over his and sucks on his bottom lip. 

Eventually, though, she shifts her grip, cards the fingers of one hand through his hair and runs the other one down to work on the buttons of his shirt. Barclay takes that as a sign, slips his hands down to her waist and under the edge of her tank top. He runs a palm over the hint of softness at her waist, rests it at the small of her back. 

Madeline gets the buttons undone and shucks the flannel off him, rests her hands on his chest and spreads her fingers in the thick, curling auburn hair there. Barclay makes an appreciative noise and leans into the touch, bends down to kiss the side of her neck. 

Madeline _snrks_ and hunches her shoulder up, laughs when he pulls back. “Sorry, sorry. Y’hit my ticklish spot.” 

“Oh yeah?” Barclay grins teasingly. “Maybe I’ll have to remember that.” 

“That so?” Madeline’s grin matches his, just a little bit sharp at the edges, and she runs her palms across his chest and down his sides. “Maybe I should be looking for ammunition, huh?” 

“I could think of some better things we both could look for.” Barclay catches her mouth in another kiss, runs his other hand up under her shirt to cup one of her bare breasts. Madeline smiles into his lips and finds one of the long, curved scars on his chest with her fingertips. 

“That okay?” She asks quietly, and when Barclay nods she strokes her nails lightly over both of them for a moment before her hands go back to roaming over his chest and back. Barclay rucks her shirt up until she leans back and lets him pull it the rest of the way off, and he tosses it off to the side. He was right about the freckles; they pepper her shoulders and upper chest, trace the whipcord muscle of her arms. Barclay leans down and goes to work on the project of cataloging every single one with his lips and tongue.

Madeline makes a soft, breathless kind of noise and tightens her arms around him, stroking one palm over his upper back and grasping his thigh with the other. “Search goin’ pretty good so far as far as I can tell,” She says, running her hand up to try and get his belt buckle undone. She gives up on trying it one-handed and pulls her hand away from his back to give it more attention. 

Barclay grins. “I’m just getting started. But don’t worry,” He nips at her collarbone, “I’ll keep you updated.” 

She snorts and tugs his belt open, goes to work on his button and zipper. “Well, I know you’re a hell of a tracker out in the woods. You’ll probably figure it out.” 

Barclay laughs and rubs his bearded cheek against Madeline’s chest before he trails kisses down her sternum and across her breast to take a nipple into his mouth. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” She says, lightly and breathlessly, yanking his jeans open and working her hand down to rub against him over his boxers. “Fuck, that’s good . . .” 

Barclay grins and rocks his hips forward into her touch as he traces her nipple with his tongue in slow circles that match the pace of her hand against him. It’s good, the pressure, not enough to do much besides promise more but Barclay doesn’t mind. They’ve got nothing but time. 

He moves his attention to the other breast after a minute, gets the same pleased response, and then Madeline abruptly hooks her free hand into the waistband of his jeans and gives them a tug. “These’re gettin’ in my way.” 

Barclay smirks and shifts backwards, shimmies out of his jeans and then leans back on his hands. “Bossy,” He says lightly, teasing, and Madeline snorts and runs her hands up his chest to rest on his shoulders, giving him a quick, firm push that sends him tumbling backwards into the pillows.

“I’m bossy ‘cause I’m the goddamned boss around here,” she says, tosses a leg casually over his legs and settles herself straddled over his lap, grinding herself down against him.

“No arguments here,” Barclay lets out a laugh that turns into a hitched breath as she leans down and traces his collarbone with her tongue.

“Smart fella.” She shifts her weight a little and slides a hand under the waistband of his boxers, and then she pauses. “Okay if I get rid of these too?” 

Barclay swallows and nods, gaze sliding sideways for a second. He’s not used to _asking_ being a thing when he’s this far into the process with somebody. “Yeah. Just, uh. I mean, you know what I’m . . . uh. Working with, right?” 

“Yeah. I know,” Madeline kisses the side of his neck, his jaw, his cheek, catches his mouth with hers before she lifts herself up off him for a second while she talks. “And what you’re workin’ with suits me just fine.” 

Barclay grins and runs his hands over her skin, tracing freckles with his fingertips. “Okay.” He’s going to take her word for that. Madeline’s a lot of things but she’s not a liar, she wouldn’t say that if she didn’t mean it. 

She shifts around until she’s got his boxers stripped off and then goes back to straddling him, running her hands over his chest and leaning down to suck on his neck. One hand strays lower, and she traces the side of his dick with her fingertips, grinning when he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“You sure look nice when you’re turned on, you know that?” She practically purrs, stroking him lightly, and Barclay’d like to come up with something smart to say in response to that except his brain’s shorted out from actually having her hand on him and all he can manage is a garbled noise that’s sort of meant to be an agreement. 

Madeline kisses his neck again, ghosts her lips up and across his ear and pauses when he shudders underneath her. “Hm,” She says quietly into his ear, breath warm as summer, “Did I just find a weak spot?” 

Barclay laughs breathlessly, bucking his hips under her fingers. “I don’t have any weak spots, I’m invincible,” He manages. 

Madeline makes a skeptical noise and traces the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue, catches the point of it between her teeth and worries it gently and _holy shit_ Barclay didn’t realize that was something he was into but it _definitely fucking is,_ if the way it makes him squirm and shudder and pant is anything to go by.

Madeline’s got a smirk in her voice when she finally turns him loose. “Invincible, huh?” 

Barclay sucks in a deep breath as her fingers move away from his dick, tracing slow, vague patterns across his belly. “Yeah, you heard me. Invincible.” 

“Well, good.” Madeline kisses him again, slips her tongue past his lips and traces the point of one of his incisors with it before she pulls back. “Means I got you for a long time to come.” 

“Long as you want me,” he says, catching her breasts with his palms and watching her lean forward into the touch, and it’s perilously close to being the truth but fuck it, she doesn’t need to know he’s being honest and not just bantering. 

“I like the sound of that.” She shivers as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, grinds herself down against him again and then pulls away from him. 

Barclay hesitates as she runs her palms down his sides and follows the gesture with the rest of her body, shifting her weight until she’s kneeling between his legs with her hands on his hips. 

“Oh, uh.” He’s suddenly uncomfortably reminded of past experiences, times when someone’s gone down on him despite their obvious discomfort with his body, and yeah, Madeline wouldn’t lie to him about being fine with what he’s got going on, sure, but still, he doesn’t want her to feel _obligated_ or anything . . .

“Hm?” She tilts her face up to look at him. There’s a lock of her hair fallen over her forehead, and she grins mischievously at him as she tosses her head to try and dislodge it, reaching over to pick up a sheet of snipped-open latex from the side table. 

“You don’t have to . . . y’know.” He huffs out a breath and runs a hand over his face, feeling the heat of a blush climbing up his neck and over his cheeks as she presses the makeshift dental dam over his dick. “If you don’t want to.” 

Madeline snorts and bends down to kiss his hip. “Barclay,” She says warmly, “I ain’t ever sucked a dick I didn’t want to in my whole goddamn life and I ain’t about to start tonight.” 

He barks out a sound that might be a laugh. “Oh my god,” he says, hiding his eyes behind his hand for a second, because whatever the hell he expected her to say in response it wasn’t _that_. 

Madeline rubs her palm over his thigh, a long slow sweep of gentleness. “Okay for me to keep goin’?” She asks, and something goes warm and soft and trembling in his gut at how soft her voice is and how sure he is that she’d stop the second he so much as _breathed_ the word _no_.

Not that he wants to. He drops his arm and looks down at her, at her beautiful brown eyes watching him. “I . . . yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” He says, in what is probably the dumbest understatement of his entire life. 

“Well, all right then,” She grins, and she bends herself over him and takes him into her mouth.

It's . . . different. Barclay honestly can't remember anyone ever bothering to use a condom unless they were fucking him, and the sensation takes some adjustment. Not as much as he would've thought, though, because Madeline — _fuck,_ Madeline clearly knows what she's doing.

His hands don't know quite what to do with themselves, move from his chest to the bedsheets to her shoulder. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in her hair, and she makes an encouraging noise when he cards them through the short, wild brush of it, so he does that again. 

Madeline hums against him, sends sensation rolling up through his abdomen, and Barclay takes a deep, shuddery breath. He expected this to be fast, hard and hot and sloppy like most of his past experiences, but this isn’t like that. Madeline’s taking her time, like she’s testing to see what makes him respond most. As if it’s important she learns what he likes best. 

He's not used to someone taking that kind of time on him. She's moving against him hot and steady but gently, methodically. Like she does when she's carving, he realizes. Focused and perfectly balanced, like every movement's carefully considered. Like giving Barclay head is something she's been planning for a long time. Like he's —

 _A work of art_ , some corner of his brain supplies, and his breath catches and his heart does a kind of stuttering hiccup in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with the flood of indescribable warmth that wells up in him if he tries to think about that notion head-on, so he settles for squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on what she’s doing instead of how and why.

And it’s — god, it’s _so fucking good_ , she’s found a rythym and pressure now that’s _perfect_ and it sends pleasure rolling up his spine and out into his limbs, builds a sensation like a coiling spring in his abdomen. Barclay pulls his fingers out of her hair for fear that he’ll tighten his grip and hurt her by accident and clenches the sheets in his fists instead. 

“Madeline,” He chokes, “Madeline, oh my god —”

She moves her hand to his hip and squeezes gently like she’s trying to anchor him, and it’s so casual and affectionate and it make Barclay’s insides do flips, the way she’s treating him, he can’t remember anybody ever touching him quite like this, he wishes it’d never stop but at the same time he thinks if he takes much more of it something in his chest is going to actually burst. It’s so _much_ , it’s so hot and perfect and _gentle_ and he can’t — can’t —

He comes with a sharp, shocked cry, back arcing up off the mattress, fingers clenched in her sheets so hard his knuckles go white. She keeps her mouth on him until he collapses back, panting, and then she sits up and tosses her head with a grin. 

“Holy shit.” Barclay says breathlessly, untangling his grip on the bedclothes. “Holy _shit_.” 

“Mmmhmm.” Madeline looks smug, running her palms over his thighs and hips. 

Barclay grins and reaches for her, pulls her close and peppers her shoulders and chest with kisses until she’s laughing. Shit, she’s still wearing her shorts, which is a failure on his part that he’s going to rectify _right the fuck now_. 

He pushes himself up on his elbows, pressing his chest against hers, and kisses her deep and intense while he gets the button and zipper undone and slides the garment over her narrow hips, taking her underwear with it as he does. She wriggles a little, works the clothes down as far as she can get them without breaking the kiss, and finally gives up and rolls sideways off him so she can kick them the rest of the way off. 

She stretches long and slow, like a cat getting up out of a sunbeam, wiggles her hips a little as she grins up at him, and Barclay knows he’s grinning like a big sappy dope but he really can’t help it. 

“You’re beautiful, Madeline,” He says, running his palm from her collarbone down over the swell of one breast and over her side to her belly. There’s a scar there just shy of her hip, jagged and faded, and he just barely grazes it with the pad of his thumb. She’s probably got more scars than Barclay does, actually, a chart of close encounters running under the starmap of her freckles. 

Madeline snorts, tosses her head so her hair sprawls out around her face. “And you’re a goddamned sweet-talker like I said before,” She retorts. 

“No, just honest,” Barclay leans over her and kisses across her shoulder and her collarbone, curls his fingers around the curve of her hip. He's suddenly worried that she's brushing him off because she doesn't _believe_ it, and the thought she might somehow not _know_ what a goddamned marvel she is makes his heart fold in on itself.

But then Madeline laughs and runs her fingers through his hair, leans up into the touch of his lips. “Didn’t say there was anythin’ wrong with sweet talk,” She says, “Long as you use your mouth for more’n just that.” 

Barclay grins and moves his mouth to her breast, worries the nipple gently with his tongue until her breath catches and her fingers tighten sweetly in his hair. Barclay runs his fingers across her body, over freckles and scars and the soft, beautiful sweep of her skin. He can’t believe anyone as wrought-iron strong as Madeline Cobb could possibly be so _soft_ but she manages it. 

He slides his fingers lower, traces her hip and the dark hair between her thighs with light, careful motions, looking for the places where she likes to be touched. She shivers under him and rests a palm on the back of his neck as he circles her clit, her fingers curling in his hair. 

“Keep goin’,” She breathes, and Barclay lifts his head from her breast to look at her face, the breathless expression there, the way her dark eyelashes are half-lowered over her warm brown eyes. 

He presses two fingertips against her, watches the way her face changes with the sensation, how she parts her lips and tilts her chin and sighs. He could spend all night like this, he thinks, just watching her react to him touching her, the way pleasure unfurls across her face, the way her body shivers and rocks up into his hand. 

Madeline’s clearly got different ideas, though, the way she bucks her hips up against his touch and hisses _“Faster_ , Barclay, c’mon . . .” 

Barclay grins and complies, his fingers moving more urgently as he lifts himself up and kisses her deep and intently. She hooks an arm around his shoulders, holds him in place as she kisses him back, her whole body tense and practically humming under him. 

Madeline’s the one who breaks the kiss, finally, trails her mouth across his cheek to catch his earlobe gently between her teeth, and she makes a broken-off, desperate kind of noise that sends a shot of pure lust right through Barclay’s stomach. 

“Fuck, you got talented fingers.” She breathes in his ear, “I want ‘em inside me.” 

Holy _God_. Barclay practically chokes and pulls away from her just long enough to feel blindly for the side table. He fumbles for a second, manages to get a glove on and the lube uncapped without making a fool of himself, and he slicks his fingers and then reaches down and slides one slowly into her, stroking his thumb over her clit as he does. 

Madeline makes a noise that’s drawn-out and beautiful and goddamned _obscene_ , tightening her fingers on his shoulder. “ _Christ_ that’s good, keep that up, honey.” 

Barclay doesn’t have to be told twice. He moves inside her, looking for the right rhythm, watching how she responds, trying to do for her like she did for him, trying to make it good for her, give her what she likes best. 

He slips a second finger into her, grinning when she grinds down against the touch. Her breath’s coming in short, ragged gasps, her palms hot against shoulders and neck as she rocks in time to the movement against her and inside her. 

She’s beautiful. She’s so damned beautiful, whether she’s carving or running down an Abomination or stretched out with her feet dangling in the springs. She’s beautiful like this, shivery and lost in sensation, making little half-noises as he touches her.

He bends his head down and takes her nipple into his mouth again, and she sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and laces her fingers into his hair. 

"More," she says, her voice clipped and husky, her hips bucking up against his hand to punctuate the word, and she lets out a little needy whine that goddamned near makes Barclay come again, the shot of arousal it sends through him is that intense. “More, Barclay, gimme another one, honey, c’mon, _please_ —” 

He can’t say no to that, he’d give her just about anything she asks for anyway but if she asks like _that_? He’d burn the goddamned Monongahela to the ground if she wanted it. He works a third finger into her and she’s so tight around him, so full, and the noise she makes is _beautiful_.

They fall into a rhythm, his mouth and her breasts and his fingers and her hips, chasing the sensation, Madeline’s voice catching on half-formed words, on the sound of Barclay’s name, her fingers tightening in his hair as he fucks into her.

Madeline stiffens and makes a high, breathless noise, and Barclay feels her tighten around his fingers. He keeps up the motion of his thumb against her clit until she relaxes, shuddering, and reaches down to push her palm vaguely against his forearm. 

Barclay takes the hint and slides his fingers out of her, strips the glove off and tosses it haphazardly onto the nightstand. Madeline’s panting, grinning loopily up at him, and she reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss. He lets himself be pulled, tumbles over on his side and she shifts after him, not breaking away. 

Finally she pulls back and smiles at him, pushes his disheveled hair back off his forehead with her fingers. “Goddamn, Barclay,” She says warmly, propping herself up on her elbow, “Anybody ever tell you you’re dynamite in bed?”

He can’t help it, he barks out a laugh and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her in for another kiss. Nobody has, no, but that’s not the point, the point is that this was _everything_ he hoped it was going to be. 

Madeline strokes her palm over his beard, breaks out of the kiss and flops dramatically back onto the pillows. “Shoulda done this a long time ago.” 

“Yeah, well.” Barclay runs his fingers down the wiry, freckled plane of her bicep, “Better late than never?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Madeline stretches like a cat, languid and sated, and he can’t help staring at her, even now.

God, he hopes this doesn’t fuck everything up. 

Barclay rolls that thought off his back with a shake of his shoulders and sits up all the way, doing a quick visual once-over of the bed and the floor to see if he can figure out where his pants ended up. 

Madeline _tsks_ at him. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?” 

Barclay freezes. He definitely doesn’t flinch, don’t be ridiculous. “Uh.” Shit. Does he look like an asshole now? He’d just kind of assumed . . . this is _her_ room, he’s not really —

Madeline snorts at him like she can read his mind. Hell, maybe she can. “If you think you’re gonna slip off into the shadows without me gettin’ my Bigfoot cuddles after that, you better just think again.” 

Barclay rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s not that he doesn’t want to stay with her, it’s just that he’s trying not to fuck this up. “I mean, if you’re cool with me staying . . .”

Her response is to sit up just long enough to yank him back down onto the mattress, pin him down gently by the shoulder, and kiss him deeply before she flops down with her arm across his chest. “Hush,” she says, consolidating her position against his side and settling her head into the hollow of his shoulder. “Relaxin’ time started a goddamned hour ago.” 

“Well, when you put it like that.” Barclay takes a deep breath and slides his arm around her, shifts his shoulders until he’s comfortable. Okay. So it won’t hurt anything if he stays for a little while. It’s gonna be fine. He’ll just follow her lead and leave when she’s tired of him being here and it won’t ruin the good thing they’ve got going. It won’t. 

Madeline reaches down and yanks her covers up over the both of them, throws a leg over Barclay’s legs and sighs contentedly. “You’re warm.” 

“Sylph, remember?” He says absently, reaching up to brush his fingertips through her hair. 

“Mmmhmm.” Madeline turns her head and kisses his collarbone. “It’s nice.” 

Barclay grins stupidly. “Never been complimented on my body temperature before.” 

“First time for everything.” Madeline yawns, and the two of them lapse into silence for a second before she speaks again.

"Sure would like to kick his ass," she mumbles sleepily into his shoulder.

Barclay snorts. He thinks that might be what they'll put on Madeline Cobb's tombstone. "Who?"

Madeline hums, stroking her hand lazily over his chest. "Whoever it is made you so goddammed scared to be taken care of," she says, soft and sleepy-slow. 

Barclay . . . Barclay doesn’t have any kind of response to that, except that a part of his brain lights up in alarm and urges him to _run_ because somebody’s _seen_ him. He makes an effort to ignore both that instinct _and_ the thorny question of what it says about him that her words triggered that specific response. Doesn’t matter. 

He couldn’t run if he wanted to, anyway, because Madeline’s head is nestled in the crook of his shoulder and his arm is around her back and she’s already closed her eyes, breath settling out into even. 

Barclay takes a deep breath and stares up at the knotted patterns in the pine boards of Madeline’s bedroom ceiling. Here’s the thing about living at Amnesty Lodge: it’s _safe_. It’s safe and it’s stable and it’s . . .

Well. _Home_ is a word that Barclay’s brain shies away from, like a light too bright to be anything but painful if you try and look directly at it. But put it this way: it’s the first place in a long time where he’s been able to really _breathe_. 

The fact that Madeline’s a part of this place doesn’t hurt, either. And what just happened is . . . it’s something better than just good. It’s so good it’s a little bit scary. 

If Madeline decides that the two of them fooling around is something she wants to do more of, that’d be something pretty close to a goddamned miracle as far as he’s concerned. If she wants to go back to where they were at before this, to flirtation and goofing and the two of them sitting side by side with their feet in the springs, well — Barclay’s still not sure what he did to deserve that in the first place, so he’ll take it. 

Maybe there’s a little tiny part of him that wants _more_ than either of those choices, but Barclay’s gonna ignore that part of himself. He’s not going to push his luck when he’s already got more than the person he was a year ago could even remember how to want. He’s going to take this good luck and hold onto it with both hands for however long it lasts. 

Yeah. He sighs and closes his eyes, listening to Madeline’s breathing, relishing the safe, solid warmth of her at his side and the memory of her hands and her mouth and the way she _looked_ at him. 

Yeah. This is more than enough. 


End file.
